Just Goes to Show
by tell them i hate them
Summary: Rather than argue he'd prefer to get this out of the way so he could move past it and get on with more important things. Drinking, for one. [Murdoc2D]


Murdoc couldn't tell whether this was normal behavior or not. Normal for 2D, at least. Noodle seemed to be worried about him. Then again, she was usually worried. Especially when it came to 2D. Russ seemed to be irritated at Murdoc. Then again, he was usually irritated at Murdoc. Especially when it came to 2D. He got the distinct impression from both of them that they expected him to Fix Things. Like it was his fault.

Then again, it was usually his fault (if one could assign culpability to his way of dealing effectively with the singer). For all he knew, it was his 'fault' this time too, and rather than argue he'd prefer to get this shit out of the way so he could move past it and get on with more important things. Drinking, for one.

He glanced at the man next to him and thought. Distinct lack of prattling. No fidgeting. No looking for cigarettes. Slight increase in pallor, an effect which, when combined with the complete absence of facial expression, gave the impression that the singer was, in fact, dead.

All this after a period of two days in which no one had seen him at all.

Massive head trauma brings about a host of physiological changes, which in turn can bring about a host of psychological changes, and people who suffer from it are usually Never Quite the Same. After a nasty attack of massive head trauma, 2D had, for a year, been in a coma, which, if one had to go ahead and play the blame game, was also Murdoc's fault. During that year, Murdoc had been 2D's sole caregiver. He'd learned, somewhere along the way, that upon the very slim chance that they ever awakened, many coma patients dealt with chronic, crippling depression. 2D had been one of them. Chronic, crippling depression set in. Chronic, crippling headaches, too, and so his doctors kept him on a steady diet of painkillers. Since a constant haze of opiates would make any mood disorder a moot point, the pills usually kept 2D's depression in check. Usually. Depending on which drug the doctors had prescribed him on any given month, 2D could either be blissfully unaware of any aberrant neurotransmitter activity in that pretty head of his, or he could be willing to carve himself open like a stuffed turkey if he could just see the _point_ of doing so, which he never could, so he never did. For one to say that this could plausibly be the cause of 2D's behavior for the past forty-eight hours would not be unreasonable.

That is, if one didn't take into account the fact that fifty-two hours before, Murdoc had been enthusiastically fucking 2D's non-brains out. For one to say that _this_ could plausibly be the cause of 2D's behavior for the past forty-eight hours would also not be unreasonable. In fact, for one to say that this was pretty god damned likely to be the cause of 2D's behavior for the past forty-eight hours would be a (nearly) correct assessment of the situation.

Murdoc couldn't ever remember seeing him like this before, and wondered why he'd be this way because of sex. In fact, he wondered it aloud, only with more profanity and less specificity.

"What the fuck's wrong, brain-ache? You come out of your room after two days just to mope?"

The corners of the other man's mouth pulled down. Other than that, he sat like a fucking stone. Murdoc considered hitting him, but the singer might misconstrue that as abuse. He might have to take a different approach today. He crossed his arms, and thought a bit more.

So if one took into account the fact that fifty-two hours before, Murdoc had been enthusiastically fucking 2D's non-brains out, and decided that this could be a factor in 2D's behavior, one might also consider Murdoc's behavior post-coitus - namely, straight after enthusiastically fucking 2D's non-brains out, he'd enthusiastically gotten half-dressed, and had enthusiastically left. Having explored the situation fully, one could now say with complete confidence that _this_, surely, was the cause of 2D's behavior for the past forty-eight hours.

Murdoc had always been fairly enthusiastic about ensuring that the singer's self-esteem was at a level that he, Murdoc, could manage, and was equally enthusiastic about finding new and more fun methods of doing so. This was, he had decided, the most fun method he'd yet come across. Except none of his other methods seemed to do quite as much damage.

It wasn't as if he hated 2D, and despite his frequent tirades of this being his band and all, even Murdoc himself couldn't quite understand his need to repeatedly break the boy down. Sometimes he'd even admit to himself that maybe being civil or even nice to the singer wouldn't be all that terrible.

Just because Murdoc made it a point to disregard other people's emotions, particularly those of the person sitting next to him, did not in the slightest mean that he wasn't perceptive of them. He knew people, particularly the one sitting next to him, and he knew that he held an inordinate amount of power over this person, and perhaps this was the reason. Perhaps this was the reason for every single insult, every single blow.

He did it simply because he could.

Fifty-two hours before, 2D had been hopeful. He'd thought that maybe Murdoc didn't hate him after all, because who'd shag someone they hated? Well, some people might, but he didn't think Murdoc was that kind of person. Admittedly, Murdoc _was_ the kind of person who'd shag someone just for the sake of it, and come to think of it so was 2D, but this was different for him somehow and maybe it was for Murdoc too. Maybe they'd be closer after this. Maybe Murdoc would be nicer to him. For just a few moments afterward, there was that haze, that warmth that was more intense now than it had ever been.

Somewhere between forty-eight and fifty-two hours before, Murdoc had left 2D's room without a word or a backwards glance. That had hurt. It had hurt enough to keep him in his room for two days. It had hurt enough to make him feel sick. It had hurt enough to leave him exhausted. It had hurt enough to keep him from speaking to Murdoc now.

It had been different for Murdoc too. The thought had made a brief appearance in his mind fifty-two hours before but he'd shoved it aside so he could get to the bit he was really enthusiastic about. This was a thought that did not take to being pushed so quickly out of the way and so diverted Murdoc's attentions just a bit, without him really noticing.

He'd been slow. He'd been careful. He'd been focused. He'd reveled in all the little sighs and gasps and shivers and moans, in the way 2D bit his lower lip, in the abrupt pleas and in the way his back arched, in the way he shuddered when he came.

Intensity. That was the difference. There was a great discrepancy between sex with someone who wanted Murdoc the rock star, and sex with someone who just wanted Murdoc. It was a realization that hit him, suddenly, so hard it made his head pound and his stomach clench.

Oh. Guilt.

He turned to look at 2D. Really look at him.

Fifty-two hours before, Murdoc had avoided kissing 2D. Kissing got in the way. Kissing was a waste of time. But mostly, kissing just made Murdoc nervous.

The idea of it made him nervous now, but it felt right. "2D." When was the last time he'd called him that? When _wasn't_ it dullard or numbnuts or brain-ache? He wondered whether it was the name he used or the tone of his voice that made the singer look at him. Really look at him.

Kissing made Murdoc nervous, but he leaned across the sofa and kissed 2D anyway. Stone softened. Dark eyes closed. 2D's hands rose to rest on Murdoc's shoulders.

Slow. Careful. Focused.

One was led out of the room, down the stairs to the basement level and into the room at the end of the hallway, the room with the bed with purple sheets. 


End file.
